Why It Scares Me
by raynperdition
Summary: Oneshot- may become a full length fic. No promises. Sherlock and John fight. After two years of endlessly beautiful memories, a single decision turns it all to ash. Will they come out of the wreckage? Johnlock, some allusions to punklock. Not explicit as of yet. May change in later chapters. Sherlock-centric.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:_ I have been extremely absent on this account for quite some time now. I don't know what this will become. I don't know if it will go further than this. I don't even know if you'll like this. But, I am enduring in my love of angst with this tragic little bomb of heart-rending pain. Sigh. I'll understand if you hate me. But..unlike a few other ventures on this account, I feel this may go further than a oneshot._

_This fic is named after a song by my favorite band, La Dispute. It's called Why It Scares Me. I'm thinking this is going to be Sherlock-centric. Hence, the song is as well. _

_Please review. I'd love to hear your thoughts._

* * *

He supposed it should've been obvious from the beginning. He was doomed to fall to the ruin that had personified itself as Sherlock Holmes, 16 years old, haughty, and brilliant. The man responded to his first 'Hello' by laying out his life in short, terse, precise insults, and continued it by saying 'You have horrid fashion taste'. Coming from a boy in ripped black jeans, a loose white t-shirt, and a beat up leather jacket, sporting a thick, curly mohawk...it shouldn't have been nearly as enticing as it was. John told him he was brilliant- nearly as brilliant as the shock in those indescribable icy eyes. From then on, it was a downward spiral for a boy who had never so much as thought a male form attractive.

Sherlock Holmes took his normal, vanilla, teenage life and turned it upside down. He taunted him relentlessly, growled like an angry mutt when John babbled, and made him nervous endlessly. And all of it served as a drug to the boy who'd never so much as smoked pot. The first few months, John made himself comfortable in Sherlock's not infrequent presence in every facet of his life. He brought him home to meet the parents, introduced him to a few friends, even dragged him along to a party where Sherlock became an endless entertainment by letting him in on priceless blackmail information on everyone attending.

But somehow, he never imagined it'd end like this. Two years after they met and Sherlock declared in his posh, incorrigible way that his jumpers were a heinous punishment to his eyes. A year after they'd kissed the first time- a messy meeting of drunken lips and vodka tongues. Six months after they'd said I love you. Three months since they'd had sex, and John had given a blowjob.

A day since Sherlock had revealed he could never love another like he loved John Watson.

* * *

Really, it shouldn't have been surprising. He had let himself fall for someone horribly normal. It was idiotic, and he'd known it from the moment John had flashed that pretty, sunshine-filled smile and stroked his ego like he'd been born for it. But he had shaken his head and allowed John to infiltrate the impenetrable castle walls of his heart and soul- if he had either one, sometimes he still wasn't sure of their existence.

A tear slipped down a white-in-the-moonlight cheek and Sherlock feels his heart for the first time. He feels it breaking. It isn't fair, but life never is, and love is a fool's game. Perhaps he had known somewhere deep down that John would break his heart, but he had always sworn to himself that it would be the other way around. Seems like he had been right on both counts- fitting, that the genius was the one who got it right. John's lips tremble, and he stamps down the urge to hug the boy who had always felt so right in his arms.

"It's not that simple, John!" He hears himself yelling in a dirty alley on the bad side of London, and feels his mouth go dry. What he'd give for his hands to stop trembling as they light a cigarette. He forces himself to stay nonchalant, like this doesn't hurt him as much- or more- than it's hurting his young boyfriend.

"It is! I love you, you twat! You can't do this. Not now...not when-" John cuts off, and Sherlock feels a brief moment of victory as he was the one who broke John of his rambling.

"Not when you're scared? My dear Watson, I think that's a bit selfish of you." He hears the imperial tone of his voice, but refuses to feel guilty for it. He isn't the type to repent. One cannot take back words spoken into cold air. Somehow, he realizes he's appreciative of the frigid air cutting against the sensitive skin of his face, making his mouth go numb. If only his heart were effected in the same way.

"Oh, like you have fucking feelings? Look at you, smoking a cigarette and looking like you got a damn pony for Christmas, you bloody bastard." John's tone is bitter, and it cuts through him like a two-edged sword. And he was called the silvertongued. The idea nearly made him snort. Obviously, he was the wordsmith of the two, but when it came down to brass tacks, John could cut as sharply as him on a good day. "You never cared about me." Oh, what an idiot his boy was. "You still don't. You said yesterday-" He comes up short, sniffling. Sherlock realizes that John was all-out sobbing now. Again, he has to resist the urge to bundle up the smaller man in his arms and coo to him that one day, he'd be okay. Because as much as he wishes it were different, John was never made to be with him. They're much too different. Opposites. Even if they attract, they are never good for each other. Sherlock had corrupted him, and John had given him tragic emotions. Not quite the fair trade.

"What I said yesterday was the truth. For me. Not for you." His voice is stone cold, and he thinks he might one day thank his parents for teaching him how to cut away emotions like they don't exist, and damn them for giving him a brilliant brain that could read every thought across John's face.

Hope, for the 'us' that never should've happened.

Love, for a man who was irredeemably unlovable.

Desire, for something that never should've been.

Fear, for the hard fact and absolute truth.

They could never be together, and that was that.

* * *

He realizes with startling clarity that Sherlock still does love him. Even if he's quickly building impenetrable walls around that love- effectively locking John out while simultaneously chaining him to this...thing that lingered between them in the winter air. Fighting was the only response he could conjure up, even if he knew it was pointless. Sherlock had made up his mind, and John was powerless to change his opinion. For a month, Sherlock had been fighting his parents over this- over them- and that had made John believe Sherlock Holmes had a heart once and for all. His belief didn't waver now, as they fought in the slow-drifting snow and through cold noses and numb lips. Maybe it was the hysteria of the moment, but John thought he might be getting frostbite on his littlest toes.

"You think because of this, that I don't love you?" The moment the words fell from his lips, Sherlock was rolling his eyes and huffing a put-upon sigh. The look on his face called John an idiot before his voice did.

And when it did, it resulted with another shiver completely unrelated from the cold, traveling down John's spine. "You're an idiot." The tone in his voice reminded John of the time not long after they'd met when Sherlock told him to _"Keep your thoughts to yourself if you're going to be boring, John."_ "I know you love me, now. I also know that you won't when you come home in four years." Four years...it wasn't nearly enough time to stop loving Sherlock Holmes...not for John Watson.

John shook his head. "You're bloody unbelievable! You're fucking stupid. And you're being a damn bastard because it isn't me who's scared, it's _you."_ His voice was as sinfully dark as Sherlock's, and stronger now. He wasn't quivering like a lost puppy anymore, he was standing up like a damn soldier. Fuck it, if he's gonna lose Sherlock, he's gonna fight to the death.

The words drop like an atomic bomb going off inside a very thin, very volatile, Tim Burton-esque teenage boy. Ice eyes flash like they're melting in the explosion, and John fears for his life, and Sherlock's sanity. Because he's never seen Sherlock lose it, not for even five seconds. But in five seconds, Sherlock has backed John against a wall- a wall which Sherlock's very small fist slams into. There is no hint that Sherlock has registered the pain that a crack of bone ominously proclaims. _"You,_ my dear _friend,"_ Blood red lips spit the endearment like it's dirty and vile. "Are leaving _me._ Not the other way around. I have the god damn right to be scared, and you bloody know it. So don't throw this back on me. You made this decision without even mentioning it to me. You decided to leave me without giving me a fucking week to come to terms. And yet you are the one who made me god damn feel something!" His voice cracks and Sherlock's eyes flash again. Anger is a terrifying look on Sherlock, even more so than when he's reducing a moron for the sheer want of something to do. His voice is a low, heavy hiss that makes John wonder what deep well of hell Sherlock really came from. Because as much as John protests the man is an angel to him, he's very much a demon from Hades' greatest depths as well. John has awoken the beast that has been hibernating.

"You know why I didn't." The words sound small and useless. Mostly because they are. For once, the reason why and the facts of that knowledge do nothing to comfort a man who has finally felt emotion. And perhaps that was why Sherlock was so volatile, for the man had felt nothing so much as kindred to love for 17 years, and now, he feels it more violently than those who have lived with it since they were cognizant of their hearts.

"You're a coward." The words are poison, and they threaten to incapacitate John where he stands. "I hate you." Sherlock pulls away, his mangled hand immediately thrust into the pocket in his jeans. "Go. Go to the army. Be a doctor. See if I miss you." The words aren't a challenge or a dare, they aren't a taunt meant to hurt John.

They are a promise.

Sherlock Holmes may have a grown a heart.

But it had shriveled and wilted just as quickly as it had flourished.

* * *

_And if my heart just stops, pack my memories in it..._  
_I want to know all the love I've got._


	2. Chapter 2- You're Dead Wrong

_A/N: The song for this chapter is You're Dead Wrong by Mayday Parade. Also mentioned in this chapter is Somebody I Used to Know by Bruno Mars (covered by Mayday Parade). _

_Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

_She's got broken things where her heart should be__._

* * *

Sherlock sat in his bedroom, window cracked and cigarette- maybe his twentieth since he'd gotten home an indeterminate amount of time ago- between his lips. A long drag, hold it in, breath it out. It had been the rhythm of heartbreak and useless, ridiculous pining. He had shed his jeans somewhere on the floor, and was now wearing only the boxers John had timidly given him on his birthday a year ago, and the shirt he'd stolen from him last week. It still smelled like him. He knew he was torturing himself.

John was leaving today. Going hundreds upon hundreds of miles away- might as well have been to the next fucking solar system, in Sherlock's opinion- and leaving him. And the bastard hadn't even had the decency to apologize. It was very much a move Sherlock would've made, and in John's shoes, he would've felt justified. But Sherlock wasn't John, and vice versa. Sherlock had never given his heart to anyone, only to have it handed back to him, beaten and abused. Apparently, that was the status quo for most relationships, from what his research on the internet told him. But this wasn't the internet, and the possibility of Sherlock getting his heart broken- formerly such a foolish notion- was suddenly very real and very sudden and very sharp.

He leaned back from his perch in a comfy old chair he and John had found at a stupid yard sale, and flicked his record player on. Sinatra came wafting through the air and settled serenely against his ear drums. The crooning did little to comfort him however. This record had been playing- a bit romantically- when they first kissed. John had promptly declared the song theirs...which Sherlock still didn't understand since John had merely rolled his eyes when he asked.

He took the record off the turntable and briefly considered smashing it against the wall. Deciding against it for reasons he'd never admit to, he placed it back where it belonged on his shelf and grabbed Mayday Parade. A line from a popular song they had covered ran through his mind..._you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness. _Immediately deciding he wanted to listen to that song, Sherlock searched it out on his iPod and shoved his earphones in his ears and hit play.

"_Now you're just somebody that I used to know_" heralded the first of the tears. The newly lit cigarette shook in his hands, and his tears wet it slightly when he put it back to salty, tear-stained lips. They were chapped, and he had always wondered how John could bare to kiss them.

* * *

John put his things in his suitcase and walked away from his family. It was the end. Last night had been the end of Sherlock. Today was the end of living in his family's home and being awoken by his younger sister everyday. Today was the end of foggy London nights spent in smoky London clubs with his grumpy British boyfriend. Britain was going to be left behind. No more frosty winters or 'Happy Christmas' heralds. No more I love yous from his mother. No more home-made meals.

He didn't even look back. Because if he did, he'd be turned to stone. Stricken with fear. Frozen by mourning. Regret had already filled his mind after leaving Sherlock freezing in a dark alleyway beside his damned motorcycle. He had feared the boy might wreck the damn thing in his state, and had grudgingly alerted Mycroft to the situation. Sherlock already despised him, might as well make it worse whilst he was still in the country. Besides, he wasn't going to be around anymore, and someone needed to take care of the bloody git. It made him feel a little guilty that he would miss the tall sociopath more than his family, but such were the effects of growing up. He was legal. He was an adult. He was going to war. Might as wear it proudly.

Although Sherlock had decided to break up with him, John took the decision as heavily on his shoulders as Sherlock had. Not only was he heading off to war, he was leaving a war of love, insecurity, and the hope for happiness behind in London. Some small part of him vaguely wondered if he was running away, from Sherlock and commitment and something serious. But he shook away the notion, that was Sherlock's move. He could remember how he'd had to coax and woo and seduce Sherlock, all the rambling he'd had to listen to- without having a damned clue what the taller teen had been prattling on about- , all the frigid nights he'd left his window open in hopes that the Holmes boy would crawl through- all the while _praying_ nothing so severe would happen that Sherlock felt the need to seek comfort. He'd lain in bed, shivering, staring out the window and wondering if he would be honored with the stark, grim, brilliant boy's presence.

But, _oh_, the nights when he'd come. Those nights were the best of his short life, or so he'd thought. Those nights Sherlock had slid under a heavy blanket, staying a good foot away from John's body, and just talked. Sometimes, he'd talked about what had happened, other times, he would just prattle on about whatever was on his mind. John would stay quiet, had kept his respectful silence even the night that Sherlock had sidled a little closer, had shared a begrudging warmth and a pillow. That night, John had barely listened, reveling in the feel of coarse, curly hair against his temple and cheek.

He closed his eyes, sitting on that plane and remembering every night thereafter, nights when they had inched closer by millimeters, until finally Sherlock had looked at him and flashed him the first smile he had ever seen on that solemnly beautiful face. The moonlight had played on cheekbones and lips and the way his eyes were set a little too far back in his head. He could remember the barest flash of teeth, the quirk of lips he'd dreamed about.

He could remember far too much to ever get over Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock didn't motivate. He didn't eat, or sleep, or experiment. He merely sat in his room, blaring Mayday Parade and smoking cigarettes in front of the window. Mycroft knocked on his door endlessly, finally giving up to send him countless text messages. He didn't bother replying. Blessedly, all attempts at communication from the elder Holmes were ceased.

A lot of thoughts ran through his head in the ensuing hours. Drugs. Memories. Regret. Guilt. Heartbreak. And most of all, loneliness. Because not only had he lost John to the military, he had lost him to his own stubborn fears and insecurities. Perhaps that was the thought, the realization, the epiphany that hurt most. When John got to come home for holiday, he would not try to locate Sherlock. He wouldn't jump into his arms at the airport- handsome in his regs- and kiss him. He wouldn't drag him to horrid family dinners and walk around endlessly with him in the park, or berate him for smoking in his car. It was over, and it was chiefly his fault- but it was also John's, he wasn't letting him off the hook with his self loathing just yet.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew John was gone, knew the second he stepped on the plane to fly out of his life forever. It hurt. Worse than the scarred cuts and needle marks on his arm. He was done crying, but eventually, he dropped his head in his hands and screamed, loud and anguished and animalistic. It was the most terrifying noise he'd ever heard in his life, and had Mycroft stumbling through the door with wild eyes and his phone in his hand. Sherlock didn't look up.

* * *

Finally, he was there. Afghanistan. 3, 430 miles away from London.

Glittering sand, glaringly bright sun. Pale blue sky and beige flatlands. Not a speck of green or grey anywhere. Buildings melded into the ground, and everything seemed to drain together into one big cesspool of sand. Sand. Sand. More sand. Everywhere he looked...sand. It was such a shock, after the concrete and brick jungle of London, of England. He had never imagined that so much could change in such a short amount of time. All around him, darker skinned men and women shouted in a beautiful, melodic language he couldn't understand.

He closed his eyes, listening to the orchestra of _'change'_ playing around him. The sound of the wind whispering over shifting and swirling ground, men and women calling and laughing and bartering, a strange band of homemade instruments playing in a bazaar somewhere, camels huffing and shuffling their hooves. A donkey brayed his irritation. And then, there was Sherlock, hiding behind his eyelids, crouched in a corner, needle in his vein, eyes teary when they looked up to John's. He could remember the feeling of him in his arms, the way he stumbled, the sound of his voice, slurred and sorrowful.

Suddenly, he missed London's fog, and rainy streets.

* * *

_It had been the first day of school. John had been striding down the hallway, not looking where he was going- an incurable klutz- and had stumbled right into the gorgeous, mysterious, _pissy_ Sherlock Holmes. John looked up from where he'd fallen on the hard tile, into cloudy, irritated blue eyes. And not just any, normal blue, but a light, clear, almost white blue. They felt like they were piercing through him to his very soul. It almost hurt. He sighed, sure he was gonna catch hell now, like anyone who pissed off Sherlock Holmes did. _

_The tall, scarily thin, tattooed boy had caught everyone's attention last year when he'd shot up an indefinable amount of inches. He'd gone from a normal kid, to rumor mill fodder. Everyone was whispering about him, but he had simply walked past with his back ramrod straight and his chin held high. It was incredible. No one had ever undergone that kind of highschool peer scrutiny with such...pride. It made John wonder if he hadn't enjoyed it, being the center of attention. Like dogs and PR agents- even negative attention is good attention. It had made him curious about the stark, enigmatic teenager who looked like he had just walked out of one of Tim Burton's cartoon creations. And over the summer, that curiosity apparently hadn't gone away._

_When he realized he'd been staring too long, and the irritation had turned to an eye roll, he spoke up. "Um, sorry 'bout that." He stood, gathering his scattered books hastily. "You okay?" He asked, staring at him and trying to find those eyes again under a tumbling cascade of curls that hid the other teenager's crystalline eyes. _

_There was a huff from red cupid-bow lips, and a muscle in his jaw knotted under the end of a sharp cheekbone. "You're the one who fell." Suddenly, John felt small and stupid. _'Idiot'_ was clearly implied at the end of the short sentence. John shrunk further. "I would ask if you were okay, but obviously you got out uninjured." Somewhere in there, John knew he was being mocked. He just couldn't figure out where or how._

_"Uh, yeah. All limbs intact. Although you're not the softest thing to knock into, are you?" He could see points and angles jutting out of Sherlock's clothing everywhere. Hip bones that could cut through crystal- and had probably given him a lovely bruise somewhere- the extremely visible joints in his arms, stark collarbone peeking out from under his shirt, and the inevitable image of rolling ribs underneath that too loose shirt. Crystal eyes narrowed when his own blue eyes traveled back up to Sherlock's face, and he blushed when he'd realized he'd been giving the other teenager a very slow up and down glance._

_Another long-limbed stride, all confidence and surety, subtlety traded in for a predatory type of elegance that turned John's mouth into a cracked desert. "I feel the need to inform you, John Watson, that I will _not_ be one of your conquests. You can take your vertically challenged, average intelligence, and _obvious_ interest elsewhere- you'll find you'd have far more success with one of the cheerleader sluts, most likely Mary Morstan. She seems to be..." He shivered like he had just eaten something absolutely disgusting._ "Far_ too interested." He rolled his eyes, huffed, and walked away._

_It was the first time he'd ever spoken to the thin panther-esque boy. And already, he couldn't wait till the next time they spoke._

_He did, however, take his advice about hitting up Mary. She was a great fuck._

* * *

A/N: _Hmm...still not terribly sure about this fic. Hope you guys like it! Please review and tell me how you liked it! _

_Sidenote: The mileage in this chapter was the distance between London, UK and the general area of Camp Bastion in Afghanistan._

_~xoxox, Rayn_


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